


Of Family Dinners

by makingitwork



Series: Meet the Watsons [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Can be read as stand alone, Everyone's a Watson, F/M, Happy Ending, M/M, Moriarty - Freeform, Mycroft, Sherlock - Freeform, are John's children, family au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-20
Updated: 2015-02-20
Packaged: 2018-03-13 22:42:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3398930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makingitwork/pseuds/makingitwork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson and his wife Mary have three children. </p><p>Their eldest son, Mycroft, and their younger twin boys, Moriarty and Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Family Dinners

5 and 12 YEARS OLD

“Okay!” John snapped “Who left a _hand_ in the fridge? Hm? Moriarty!”

Moriarty looked up from where he was digging in to a potful of Nutella with a silver spoon, cushioned in the middle of the sofa “Hm?” he asked, eyes wide, the perfect picture of innocence, with chocolate smudged around his lips. Some murder mystery programme was playing on the television, and he looked completely stumbled to be asked anything. John gentled his voice.

“Did you put a hand in the fridge?”

“No, daddy,”

John sighed, barely containing his anger “Sherlock!” He called loudly, and after a moments silence, there was the scamper of bare feet traipsing down the stairs, and Sherlock appeared, wearing safety goggles, with a test tube in his hand. “Did you put a hand in the fridge?”

Sherlock’s eyes darted to Moriarty’s “No…”

“Sherlock.”

“I’m testing the rate of finger nail gr-“

“That’s it.” John shook his head, hoisting Sherlock up and carrying him to the designated naughty step in the corner of the room, facing the wall “You’re gonna sit here for 10 minutes- 10 minutes, Sherlock, no talking, no _nothing,_ and think about what you’ve done.”

“If I can’t do anything, how can I think a-“

“Sherlock.”

The brunette bowed his head angrily, sitting with a ‘humph’ on the step, while John went upstairs to make sure Sherlock hadn’t left a Bunsen burner on. It seemed no matter how much he and Mary tried, the little boy just kept managing to gain access to fire. So they’d relented in him doing it as safely as possible, the Watson’s already had a bad reputation with the fire department.

“Aw, little Sherlock’s been bad,” Moriarty giggled, unloading another spoonful of Nutella into his mouth as he padded over to Sherlock. He poked him hard in the back and Sherlock turned to glare at him “No, no, no, you’re not allowed to do anything but think!” He laughed delightedly, and Sherlock turned back to the wall “Don’t be sad. Daddy loves me more than he loves you. He told me so.”

“No he didn’t.” Sherlock hissed, and Moriarty bopped his nose

“No talking!” He whispered, licking the Nutella from his lips, looking up, terrified when he heard footsteps. But it was just Mycroft, who sighed.

“Corpse in the fridge again, Sherlock? You know how worked up he gets about that.” Mycroft sighed, he picked Moriarty up, away from Sherlock where he knew the twin would try to get his brother in trouble. “What was it this time?”

“Just a hand. I didn’t even put it beside his sandwich-“

“Is he talking? Are you talking Sherlock?” John snapped, coming back down, and Mycroft and Moriarty looked most amused, as Sherlock turned to glare at the walls. “Where’ve you been, Mycroft?” John asked, glancing at his watch “It’s 10:30am on a bank holiday Monday, don’t tell me you were at that Diogenes club again?”

“No, mum and I were testifying for Gregson at Court.”

John nodded, remembering “Oh right. Well, will you make sure Sherlock serves his punishment, and Moriarty doesn’t smudge Nutella onto the sofa?” Mycroft nodded, and John grabbed his coat “I just need to pop to the shops. I’ll only be 10 minutes.”

As soon as he was out of the flat, Sherlock was off the naughty step. Mycroft rose his eyebrows, sitting with Moriarty on his lap, as Moriarty read a book. “Sherlock,” Mycroft warned “He won’t be too happy with you.”

“Only if he finds out.”

“I’ll have to tell him.”

Sherlock stomped his feet “You just wanna be his favourite! Taddle-tale!” But he hesitated by the bottom of the steps, as though he didn’t want to go up if John was going to be angry with him. “Don’t tell him, My!” He whined pitifully, and Mycroft smirked, nodding back to the naughty step

“He’d let you put the corpses in the fridge if you just asked him, Sherlock. He’d clear out a shelf, and it would be just for your corpses. But you don’t ask, you never ask, you just _do.”_ Mycroft stroked his hands through Moriarty’s hair gently as Sherlock made his way back to the naughty step “You really do test his patience, you know.”

“Aw, look at all my beautiful boys,” Mary beamed, walking inside and shrugging off her coat “Where’s your father?”

“Popped to the shops.”

“Ah,” she looked at them all, before frowning “What did you do now, Sherlock?”

“Hand in the fridge.” Mycroft filled in, and Mary winced

“Yeah, he’s touchy about that.”

“Must be something to do with him being a doctor and everything.”

When John came home, Sherlock had served his time on the naughty step, and was in a mood. “Sherlock?” John asked, knocking on their bedroom door. “We’re all downstairs about to watch Criminal Minds. You like Criminal Minds, you and your brothers compete over who can identify the killer first.”

No answer.

John sighed “Come on, Sherlock,” he patted the door “We can change it to Scooby Doo if Criminal Minds is too taxing for you-“

“Scooby Doo is too easy.” Came the sad, lonesome voice, and John took that as an invitation to push the door open. Sherlock was sat at his desk, curled up in the chair, looking very small indeed. He looked up at John through wild curls, and John smiled softly

“Didn’t mean to yell at you, Sherlock, love,” he said quietly “You just…all the time, right in the fridge, you know?”

Sherlock shot him a rueful smile “I _guess.”_

John held out his arms, and Sherlock couldn’t refuse, he ran straight into them, and John carried him downstairs, where they all squashed onto the sofa. John at one end, Mary in the other, Mycroft between them, with Sherlock and Moriarty sprawled out on top of them, their legs propped up onto the rest.

 

AGED 19 AND 12

“Mycroft!” Mary clapped her hands and rushed to her eldest son, hugging him tightly “I didn’t know your Uni holidays started so early this year! Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Rather defeats the idea of a surprise, mother,” he murmured with a smile, and she beamed up at him, tugging him into the flat. “Mrs Hudson’s baking me a cake.”

“Sure you should be eating?” Sherlock called from the sofa “You’re gaining weight as it is.”

Mycroft smiled “Good to see you too, little brother.”

“What about me?” Moriarty popped up from behind Sherlock, grinning like a maniac, and Mycroft nodded

“Good to see the both of you.”

Mycroft _towered_ over the both of them now. He stood there, with a regal tilt to his head, and both Moriarty and Sherlock decided that perhaps Cambridge was not the University for them if it made you turn out anything like Mycroft. He wore an expensive looking green suit, and a gold watch glinted on his wrist. He was studying politics and economics together, and Sherlock and Moriarty had winced at his choices. But Mycroft was hungry for power. He had always been hungry for power, and it looked like he was going to achieve his goal.

“Blimey!” John exclaimed, coming down the stairs “Mycroft! What a lovely surprise!” He hugged his son tightly, not at all perturbed by tall Mycroft had become. “6’2?”

“Yes, I’m afraid that’s the last of it. 6’2 shall remain my height forever.”

“Better than 5’6,” John joked, and Mycroft laughed.

As John and Mary made dinner later that afternoon, Mycroft was sitting in the armchair, reading the newspaper, when Moriarty and Sherlock approached him. He looked down at them “You’re like a couple of pixies.”

“Why are you wasting your deduction on politics?” Sherlock asked, sitting cross-legged on the floor, and Moriarty sat beside him.

“Power, Sherlock.”

“In a world of locked rooms, the man with the key is king.” Moriarty whispered, and Mycroft nodded at him approvingly

“Well done, Moriarty! Yes! Exactly like that.”

Sherlock glared at his brothers “We’ll I’m not wasting my deduction on government. I’m going to find a job where it’s of use!”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know yet!” Sherlock grumbled “I’ll invent one.”

Mycroft had missed home. University was all well and good, and he’d even succeeded in making one friend, though he doubted it would last longer than a few years. But he missed home. As he sat back in that armchair, saw his father half asleep on the sofa, with his mother tucked into his side, their hands laced, the smell of Mrs Hudson making more dessert drifting up the stairs. Moriarty sat at the piano beside the window, and Sherlock making sweet music on his violin, he _missed_ home with a yearning.

“No! Stupid! You missed a beat!” Moriarty yelled, and Sherlock whirled on him

“Me? _I_ missed a beat?”

Mycroft sipped his tea.

AGED 24 AND 17

“Sherlock!” John screamed, rushing to Sherlock’s seizing body in the darkness, taking his pulse “Oh my god- Sherlock, Sherlock!” He pulled Sherlock’s taught body onto his knees, trying to cushion his head, and he turned to Moriarty, tears sparkling in his eyes “Why didn’t you tell me?” he whispered, and Moriarty shook his head, tears in his own eyes

“I…dad, I…”

“You’ve phoned an ambulance?”

Moriarty nodded weakly, and John turned away from him.

“You should have told me. He’s been injecting himself, Moriarty! Drugs! Did you want him to die-“

“I told you when he went too far! He made me promise, Dad! Pl-“

John just shook his head, tears streaming down his cheeks.

When Sherlock woke up, he knew he was in trouble. The hospital room was quiet, and he saw his dad, asleep in a chair, and in another chair, Moriarty was asleep behind him. Mary was sat at his bedside, stroking her fingers through his hair “Oh Sherlock,” he whispered and he bit his bottom lip “What are you doing, sweetheart?”

“I just…” he held her hand tightly “It just makes everything so much _quicker.”_

“How long?”

“A…a year and a half,” he said honestly, and his mother looked away

“Did we do something? Did we do something wrong-“

“No!” He shook his head vehemently “No, no, it wasn’t yo-“

“Then why are you doing this to yourself?”

Sherlock looked stranded “It…helps me think.”

Mary stared at him, eyes wide and blue and earnest “You’re going to keep doing this, aren’t you?” He didn’t answer, he couldn’t, but she could read it on his face. “Do you know what you do to him?” she whispered, pointing to John, and Sherlock blinked back tears “When he found you in some abandoned warehouse, seizing on the floor, frothing from the mouth with a syringe in your arm, do you know what you’re doing to him? You’re _hurting_ him, Sherlock. You’re hurting all of us.”

The drive back home was tense. John was driving, with Mary in the passenger seat. From the silence on Moriarty’s part, Sherlock assumed Moriarty had been blamed. When John parked, there was no movement for a moment, before Sherlock spoke; “You shouldn’t blame Moriarty. I…I made him promise not to tell. It was my choice.”

John hit the steering wheel, and everyone jumped.

“John…” Mary touched his shoulder, and John shook his head

“I need to leave for a while.” He hissed, and Sherlock leaned forward

“Dad no-“

John pulled out of his grip as though Sherlock were a tainted thing. “Two weeks.” He whispered “I’ll be gone for two weeks.”

In those two weeks, John travelled up to Cambridge, and Mycroft happily let him stay in his dorm. It was such a contrast and yet familiarity to be with Mycroft. His eldest boy made him so proud, he was such a success, and he was _good._ He would never do drugs, and he took on responsibility so well. And yet…he was just like Sherlock. Deduced everything within moments, impossibly clever. So was Moriarty, but Moriarty was quieter than Sherlock. Of course- he could be a cocky git too, but in school, Sherlock caused the most problems. Mycroft had been a talented, quiet student, whom all the teachers liked.

Moriarty was a talented, quiet student. Some of the smarter teachers didn’t like him, but he went out of his way to woo them, and never gave them solid evidence in detention.

But Sherlock didn’t even try. He excelled in the subjects he cared about, maths, history, psychology, chemistry, but everything else had suffered.

“He’ll be okay, dad,” Mycroft whispered, and John looked at him “He will. I promise.”

And John believed him.

When he got home, Sherlock made him a cup of tea, and they sat together in the living room. “Dad-“

“Sherlock,” John looked tired, but genuine “You don’t have to explain it, okay? I’m…I’m not as smart as you lot, I don’t understand how your brain works, but if you needed the cocaine, I’m just gonna trust that you’re making the judgements correctly. But you’ve to be careful, you need to learn how not to overdose-“

Sherlock’s hugging him. His twins are tall now, not as tall as Mycroft, but they’re both 5’9. Moriarty’s not going to get any taller, but Sherlock thinks he can make it to 6’0. “I love you.” Sherlock hisses, and John hugs him tightly “You are, you are smart. You’re smarter than all of us, and I’m _sorry.”_

John kisses his head “I know,”

 

AGED 31 AND 24

Sherlock lives in a nice apartment in the north of London. He’s 6’0, lean and elegant with bony wrists and nimble fingers, dressed in a dark purple blazer and silk purple shirt, his dark curls tumble into his eyes as he scans over a file, when there’s a knock on the door. From the sound, he knows that it’s wood hitting wood, which means whoever’s knocking is knocking with an umbrella handle. “Come in, Mycroft,” he called.

Mycroft smiles, looking around the messy apartment, he sets himself down on the sofa. “So, I hear you solved another case, how public spirited of you.”

“Had to help, it was interesting. God knows Lestrade couldn’t solve it without me.”

Mycroft smiled cordially. His suit is more formal than Sherlock’s, complete with a waistcoat and pocket watch chain, that same green he seems to prefer. “I’ve got a case for you. Could result in a knighthood.”

“That sounds boring.”

“You haven’t even seen it yet.” Mycroft slid a thin file from his bag, setting it down on the table above the clutter “It involves going deep into some criminal activity, you might want to contact Moriarty, god knows that’s more his area.”

“Is he out of prison?” Sherlock asks, interested.

“Don’t you remember? He never got put in prison, bribed the jury.”

“Bribed?”

“Blackmailed.”

Sherlock smiles despite himself, “Serves them right. He didn’t do anything. He merely broke into the Bank of England because he was _bored._ He didn’t actually take any money.”

Mycroft pinches the bridge of his nose. “Anyway, it might do Moriarty some good to get some credit for _saving_ something as opposed to breaking into it. Solve the case with him and give him all the credit if you would, Sherlock.”

Sherlock threw him a dirty look “And why would I do that?”

“You may not need too. I recall him being just as good as deduction as you. On occasion, he’s even proven to be better.” Sherlock just glared at him, and Mycroft smirked “Oh and also, you know how pleased it would make dad. You wouldn’t want to upset him, would you?”

Sherlock struggled for a moment, before sighing “Fine! But don’t just pull the dad card whenever you want something, Mycroft!”

“Of course not. Remember we’re all having dinner with them this Saturday.”

Sherlock tracked Moriarty down easily enough. His twin, who stood happily at 5’9, was dressed in a slick grey westwood suit, well groomed and speaking with a slight Irish tinge. “Helping commit crimes down in Ireland?”

Moriarty looked up with a smile “Now what kind of consulting criminal would I be if I answered that?”

“What kind of consulting detective would I be if I didn’t even ask?” He tossed the file to Moriarty who caught it, and glanced through it quickly, before setting it down on the table of the well-lit glass office.

“No thanks. I mean, I know you need my help, but I’m busy making people-“ he moved his hand with a flourish “-disappear.”

“It’s for dad,”

Moriarty looked up, shifting slightly “What do you mean?”

“I mean that you upset him with the whole ‘going to trial because I broke into the Bank of England’ thing, and it might do you some good to solve a case for the Realm.”

“ _I_ upset him? I didn’t upset him, Sherlock!” Moriarty stood, agitated “This was Mycroft, wasn’t it? You don’t care whether dad’s angry with me, because that means he’s happier with you. No, no, no, this was Mycroft.” He looked down at the file though, rubbing his hands “Is he really upset with me?”

“Yup, but you don’t want to help, so that’s fine-“

“No!” Moriarty sighed “Fine, fine,” he rubbed his face “Where do we start?”

 

“This is nice,” Mary beamed, plating out more potatoes, “Having all my boys at the same table again.”

John laughed, pouring more gravy onto his chicken “They look like they’d rather be anywhere but here.” Mary saddened at that, and sat down beside John at the table “I mean, look at Sherlock, he won’t stop moving his knee, which means he’s taking a break from a case, Mycroft keeps looking at the clock on the wall which means there’s a meeting in some country with a different time zone and he’s calculating whether he’ll be late or not, and Moriarty’s staring at his phone so hard he might break it. Either he’s being taken to prison, or he’s saving the realm.”

Mary breathed out when she realised John was right. “Go,” she whispered, “Just go.”

And they did.

Nearly tripping over each other in their haste to get out of the flat.

Mary cried.

John held her in his arms, rocking her “Shh,” he whispered, kissing her temple “You know they love you, with all their hearts, but you know what they’re like.”

“I know,” she whispered, looking at the three untouched dinners “But I miss them,”

John passed her a tissue and hugged her tightly, before they both headed up for a bed.

Except that night.

Moriarty couldn’t sleep. Guilt-ridden, he _loved_ his parents, with every fibre of his being, and so found himself about to pick the lock of 221B Baker street, only to find the door was open. Frowning, he crept inside, only to see Mycroft and Sherlock already there. He sighed. “We’re all predictable, you know?”

“Tissue.” Mycroft pointed, and Moriarty stiffened

“Mum was crying?” he asked, voice breaking

“They know we…love them, right?” Sherlock asked, looking at the cold food “Because…because sometimes I wonder if they know.”

“Dad knows.” Mycroft said confidently “He knows what we’re like, but mum’s always been…much harder to convince.”

And so the next morning, Mary and John padded downstairs in their pyjamas, to see a full English breakfast waiting for them, their three sons sat around the table. Mary ran to them and hugged them and John ruffled their hair as Mary ran to get juice “You’re all so sentimental,” he teased “It’s sweet,” Then John tipped his head back and laughed heartily at the look on his sons faces.

The family does meet, not as often as Mary would like (though to be fair she wants to see them every single day), but more than most families. They meet Mycroft’s girlfriend Anthea, Sherlock’s girlfriend Irene, and Moriarty’s boyfriend Sebastian, later on in life.

But for today, after an English breakfast, Mary sits in the armchair, and sees all her boys taking a nap on the sofa, after a hearty argument about who killed who in Criminal Minds. John is in the middle, Moriarty on his left, Mycroft on his right, and lying across all of them in a dressing robe he must have found in his old room, is Sherlock, and Mary hums quietly with a smile.

Her life has been a complete success.

**Author's Note:**

> Your comments were absolutely amazing, and I love you.


End file.
